


The Orc & The Elf

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
Genre: Because of Reasons, Crowley breaks orc stereotypes, Elf Aziraphale, Eloping, Forbidden Love, Idiots in Love, Imprisonment, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Orc Crowley, Orcs have the same lifespan as elves in this fic, References to Sex, The Hobbit/Good Omens crossover, Tolkien AU, and also loves his dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Aziraphale, a captain of King Thranduil’s guard, is sent to find and catch a lone, trespassing orc. He finds him, but the orc isn’t the one who gets captured... In the end, they both get more than they bargained for.(Good Omens Tolkien AU)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Series: Good Omens AUs [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663576
Comments: 121
Kudos: 340
Collections: Good Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Lord Of The Rings





	1. A Perfectly Nice Day

Aziraphale had been tasked with hunting a lone orc, one which had been straying in and out of the Great Greenwood for weeks. The orc itself wasn’t so worrying — only a stray which had probably come down from Gundabad — but King Thranduil was keen for Aziraphale to put his young protégée to the test. Tauriel had been training with him for years now, but years were not enough to justify promoting her. Not yet. Though she doubted herself, Aziraphale insisted that she would succeed him as captain of the guard one day. 

“The king disapproves of venturing beyond our borders,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the imposing forest they were leaving behind. “Should we not turn back?”

“Most likely, but if this orc goes on to slaughter people and livestock up and down the land, Tauriel, what would that make us?” he said primly, not looking back. “Pretty poor guards, I would suggest.”

“We guard the Greenwood, not what lies beyond,” she said. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

“We have a duty to guard all that we love. Look around you, my dear,” he said, gesturing broadly to the open rolling fields which shimmered like gold in the sun. “Love doesn’t stop at borders and barriers, Tauriel.”

“King Thranduil would disagree,” she said, though he could hear her coming around to his viewpoint. 

“Then it’s a bit of good fortune that he isn’t here, then, isn’t it?” he said with a mischievous smile. “Come along, dear. We’ve got an orc to catch.”

He lengthened his stride, taking deep breaths of the fresh air. He loved the woods, but he couldn’t help thinking what a terrible tragedy it was, that his people were so inward-looking. He liked to bend the rules now and then, when he could. It gave him a chance to stretch his legs and see a little of the world beyond the forest. He liked to think that he was rubbing off on Tauriel a little, because although she questioned him, she always went along with his little deviations. In truth, he wasn’t paying much attention to the orc tracks. He followed them idly, in-between smelling the wildflowers and listening to the birds, never attentive enough to notice how much fresher they’d become. 

A twig snapped. Tauriel took a sharp breath, going to draw her bow. Aziraphale held up a hand to stop her. “Let’s not be too hasty. There’s a skin-changer around here, and I would hate to antagonise a perfectly respectable gentleman by sticking an arrow in his face for no good reason,” he said. He was also not too fond of killing things, even an orc, but he didn’t mention that part. 

Tauriel reluctantly stood down, and followed him as he crept forward toward the knoll where they’d heard the noise. She looked back, nervous of an ambush. A snarl broke out, and a strangled cry. Aziraphale crashed backward into her, knocking her down the hill. She rolled for a moment before using the momentum to swing herself back to her feet and draw her bow in one fluid movement. It was too late. 

The orc stood halfway up the hill, with furrows in the earth where he’d dug in his heels to stop his descent. He pinned Aziraphale’s arms to his sides with one arm, and held a blade to his throat with the other. “Drop the bow,” he barked. A grey warg appeared over the hill, a growl building in its throat. Tauriel glanced between them. “Now!”

“Do as he asks, dear,” Aziraphale said, swallowing nervously as the cold metal pressed against his windpipe. “I’d be rather grateful. I don’t think he’s joking.”

Taken aback, she lowered her bow. She’d been certain she could’ve killed the orc and fired a second arrow for the warg before it pounced. Clearly, Aziraphale doubted it. He’d never been an archer, though. He was a swordsman by specialism. The orc curled his lip. “Good. Now go away, and leave me alone,” he said. 

“Let my captain go, beast,” she retorted. 

“What, so you can shoot me while he stabs my dog?” he said with a scoff. “I’m not stupid. I’ll let him go when I’m sure you’re gone.”

“You’ll cut his throat the moment I turn my back.”

“Well, if you’re not going to leave, I’ll just do it now then,” he said, pressing harder with the blade. Aziraphale cried out, feeling the scimitar begin to bite. Tauriel lurched.

“No!” she shouted. He paused, looking her in the eye. She stared back. There was an unusual glint of intelligence in his yellow eyes. Slowly, she put her bow back on her back. “If you do not keep your word, orc, then I will find you.”

“Expect him back by tomorrow morning, and not before,” he replied. He jerked his head toward the dark, distinct shape of the Greenwood in the distance. “Go on, then. Run back to your little forest.”

“I am sorry, Aziraphale,” she murmured, looking dolefully at her commander. She looked up to him, as a friend and a mentor, and it pained her to see him so powerless. 

“Don’t fret about me, I’m sure our — um — our friend here will keep his word,” he said with a skittish smile and a hopeful glance at the orc. 

Tauriel turned, and fled. The orc waited until she was no more than a smudge in the rolling grasslands before he reached down toward Aziraphale’s belt. The elf flinched hard, until he realised what he was doing. “Oh. My sword, of course,” he said, almost to himself. 

His captor unbuckled the sword, sheath and all, from his belt with a frown. “What did you think I was doing?” he said. Aziraphale avoided his gaze and mumbled some weak excuse. He huffed. “Typical elf. We’re not all scum, you know.”

“You are taking me hostage, in case you forgot,” he replied sharply. The orc tossed the sword behind him while he pulled Aziraphale’s hands back and bound them at the wrists. 

“You were hunting me like a piece of game, in case _you_ forgot,” he shot back. “Not that you were very good at it. I watched you for ages before you managed to catch up.”

“You... You were waiting for us?” he said, glancing around. He’d let him go, and was buckling Aziraphale’s sword to his warg’s saddle. 

“You weren’t losing the trail, so I figured I’d ambush you while you were still birdwatching instead of paying attention,” he said, shooting him a knowing glance. “C’mon, this way. Don’t try any funny stuff. I will let you go, just don’t be a prick in the meantime, alright?”

Aziraphale huffed, and trailed after him and the warg. He would’ve made a put for his sword, but it was on the wrong side, and how could he wield it with his hands behind his back? He was good, but not that good. He settled for doing what he had been before. Birdwatching, in the orc’s words. He took in his surroundings, and tried to enjoy the walk. He’d not been here before. They came to a hollow in the ground, sheltered by broad-leaf trees, with a fire-pit and makeshift shelter. 

“Make yourself at home. Don’t try finding me here after I let you off, by the way. I’ll be long gone,” he said, gesturing to one of the stumps he’d arranged by the pit. He crouched beside it, striking sparks with a flint, trying to start a fire. Aziraphale sat on a stump, slightly lost, and watched him. 

He was hardly a typical orc. His eyes were the oddest shade of yellow, without a hint of white anywhere in them; the colour was broken only by the dark slits of his pupils. His dark red hair contrasted against his pebble-grey skin. His pointed ears were adorned with several small-yet-tasteful earrings of tarnished silver, and though his mouth was crammed with pointed teeth, they were all clean and white. The black leather of his armour was worn in places, and the silver clasps on the sleeveless torso-piece were tarnished but functional. His gauntlets were fur-lined, judging by the downy tufts sticking out under the metal. Everything, from his knee-high boots to his red hair, was clean and well-maintained.

“You seem to look after your appearance,” Aziraphale commented without thinking. He looked over his shoulder with a frown. 

“Wot?”

“Um — it’s just that, well — you seem much cleaner and more... presentable than the rest of your kind,” he stammered, regretting opening his mouth with every new word he spoke. 

He raised his brows, taking the compliment with a hint of irony. “How kind of you to say,” he said sardonically. He blew on the beginnings of the fire, urging it on. “Are all elves so eloquent, or is it just you?”

Aziraphale pouted. “Oh, you may well mock, but I’m very nervous. I’ve never been a prisoner before.”

“It’s a piece of cake, don’t worry about it. You’ve just got to loosen up, be yourself,” he said sarcastically, throwing himself down to sit beside him. “It’s mostly just sitting there, looking pretty, waiting for a knight in shining armour.”

“Sounds manageable,” he said, lost for anything else to say. “Do you have a name?”

“Of course I have a name, what kind of a stupid question is that?” he said. “It’s Crowley, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh. Nice to meet you, Crowley,” he said, determined to be civil. “I’m Aziraphale.”

He grunted in acknowledgement, and didn’t respond. They sat for a while in silence while the fire got going. Aziraphale did his best to be unobtrusive, but began to fidget. The stump was very hard on the backside, not that he had much room to complain. He was a hostage, not a guest. He was fairly at ease until he heard Crowley’s stomach grumble, and suddenly questioned why he’d started a fire in the middle of the day. 

“Pardon my asking, but... when you said you’d release me...” he said tentatively, and Crowley let his head loll jadedly toward him. “You did mean in one piece, didn’t you?”

“What? Worried I might have a nibble on you first?” he deadpanned. Aziraphale’s guilty look answered for him. Crowley rolled his eyes, and jabbed a thumb over to the rabbits hanging off the warg’s saddle. “I caught lunch earlier, don’t worry. Elf’s not on the menu.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Lovely. Thank you, that’s set my mind at rest,” he said. He swiped his tongue over his lips, not noticing the way the motion caught Crowley’s eye. “What do you eat, usually? I’m starting to think I don’t really know much about orcs at all.”

Crowley hummed, almost impressed. “T’be fair, I’m a bit weird, as orcs go. Most don’t wash. Or brush their teeth. Or eat fruit,” he said, and turned to him with a sudden burst of energy. “D’you have any idea how many orcs have scurvy just because they’re too touchy about being all macho to eat fruit?”

“I didn’t,” he said, shuffling forward in interest. Come to think of it, Crowley didn’t have that foul breath that most of his kinsmen shared, and he had to wonder if that was just the scurvy. 

“All of them. Don’t even get me started on that weird obsession with eating humans and elves and whatever other poor sod they can find,” he said, throwing up his arms in exasperation. “They’re not _for_ eating! All it does is make you ill. I don’t get it.”

“That is odd. I never realised,” he said. “Is that why you’re... um... on your own?”

“M’not alone. I’ve got Rover,” he said, gesturing to the warg, which flicked its ear lazily. “But, uh... my old lot didn’t like me much, back in Gundabad. Said I had too many fancy ideas. I’d have called them facts, but heigh ho. I got tossed out in the end, left to fend for myself.”

“How terrible,” he said, hanging his head slightly. Crowley shrugged, and went to fetch his catch. He went about preparing them as they talked. 

“What about you, hm? Your mate with the bow said you were her captain.”

“My — ? Oh she’s not my — we’re just friends, her and I. Work colleagues, really. Nothing more,” he said, inexplicably eager to correct him. He impulsively tacked on one last fact: “I don’t have a mate.”

Crowley arched a brow. “I meant mate as in friend,” he said, amused. “But alright, good to know.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks warmed up. “Ah,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m a guard captain of the Greenwood, yes. I serve King Thranduil.”

“Hm. I didn’t think he had much to do with the world outside his borders. Weird, that he ordered you out just to come after me,” he said, skinning the rabbit with deft movements of his knife. Aziraphale muttered something. “What was that?”

“He didn’t,” he admitted, louder this time. “I may have — erm — bent the rules slightly.”

“You what?” he said, turning to face him in amazement. “A wood elf, defying orders?”

“Only a little bit...”

“Oh, I’m not judging, alba. You have my respect,” he said, wiping his hands and reaching into a nearby bag for a bottle. “So much so, it calls for a drink. I picked this up last time I was in Bree. D’you know the place?”

“No. Is it far from here?” he said curiously, looking at the bottle. 

“Yeah, pretty far,” he said, using his sharp teeth to pop the cork out. He spat it across the camp. “It’s just east of the shire. Don’t suppose you’ve travelled that far west, though.”

“I’ve never been further from home than we are now, I daresay,” he said. Crowley let out a long whistle, and took a swig from the bottle. 

“Yeah, you definitely need a drink. Here,” he said, holding it up to his lips, since his hands were still bound.

“It’s barely past noon,” he said chidingly. 

“When else do you get a chance to drink on-duty?” he said, shaking the bottle temptingly. 

He hummed. “Good point,” he said, leaning forward to take a swig.


	2. Prison

Crowley woke up to the first rays of dawn, and realised he was utterly screwed. A quick glance over the camp site made him realise what he’d forgotten to do the night before. He’d been a little too free with the wine, ended up drunk, and hadn’t returned the elf to his people. Similarly, Aziraphale had been so tipsy he must’ve forgotten he was a prisoner, and didn’t remind him. He was lying on his back near the embers of the fire, sound asleep, his hands still tied. 

Crowley sat up with a groan, rubbing his eyes. He wouldn’t be able to get him back to the Greenwood in time, and even if Thranduil didn’t care enough to send a search party, that younger elf would certainly come looking. She probably expected to find her poor captain mauled beyond recognition, with a few bites missing, judging by what Aziraphale’s expectations had been. Well, at least he’d been good company. It was a good way to spend his last night alive before he was beheaded; drinking heavily with a pretty elf. Most orcs were not so lucky. 

He stood up, nudging Rover to his feet. “C’mon, mate. You’ve got to go, before his lot get here,” he said, jerking his head toward Aziraphale. “They won’t spare you. Go on, off. Find yourself a pack or something.”

Rover whined, pressing his enormous head to Crowley’s side. He sighed, scratching behind his ears. “I know, I know... We had a good run, though,” he said softly, then pushed him back. He flapped his hands at him. “Now go! Quick! Bugger off!”

With a final doe-eyed glance, Rover bounded off into the trees. He was a smart dog, smarter than most. Crowley felt a lump in his throat as he listened to the sound of receding pawsteps, knowing that he’d never see his trusty mount again. At least he’d given him his best shot at survival. It would break his heart if Rover ended up with an arrow in his eye, too. He sighed, and collapsed down beside Aziraphale. He could run, but what was the point? Elves could be vengeful bastards, and kidnapping alone was enough to put a bounty on his head. They’d run him down before sunset. At least they wouldn’t care that much, if it was only the warg that got away. 

Crowley leaned against a tree, and it wasn’t long before he heard footsteps approaching the hollow. He kicked himself. There had probably been a scout watching the campfire smoke all night, waiting for their kinsman to emerge as promised. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as they drew closer, feather-light and almost undetectable. There was nothing to do but wait. He could practically feel their eyes staring through the bracken, and scrunched up his face, waiting to feel the thunk of an arrow into his skull. He even heard the bowstring tighten. He cringed. He daren’t open his eyes. 

“You there, orc!” a voice cried. Crowley popped open one eye in surprise. There was an elf stood above the hollow, and there was an arrow pointing at his head, but he wasn’t dead yet. That was a bonus. 

“Hi,” Crowley said cautiously. This wasn’t the elf he’d seen before. This one was male, with silky blond hair.

“My kinsman. What have you done to him?” he said, eyes flicking over to Aziraphale. As if to answer, he let out a slightly louder snore. 

“Nothing. He’s asleep,” he said, then glanced over to the other side of the hollow. The leaves had rustled, as gently as the rushing breeze, but nature was not the culprit. “You know, if you’d wanted to sneak up on me, you should’ve been the one to make the dramatic entrance, not him. That way I wouldn’t have been expecting another one.”

Tauriel stepped out of hiding, her bow half-strung, disturbed. She and her companion shared a troubled glance. Orcs weren’t usually so sensitive to their surroundings, nor so smart. 

“You have keen ears, beast,” she said, and crept over to her captain, gently shaking him. Aziraphale stirred, squinting into the light. It took him a moment to recognise the face hovering over him. He jolted up, slamming their foreheads together. She hissed, rubbing the sore spot, glaring as she noticed Crowley’s delighted cackling. “Aziraphale? Are you well?”

He had a hangover, but he sensed that announcing he’d been drinking the orc’s wine would be a bad idea. “Just a little cramped,” he said. She breathed a small sigh, and cut his ropes. Aziraphale rubbed his wrists, shooting an apologetic glance at Crowley, before noticing the elf at the top of the hollow. He gasped. “Prince Legolas!”

Crowley blanched. “Wot?”

Aziraphale stood before the king, his head bowed, wringing his hands behind his back. “You defied my orders, Captain,” he observed, slowly pacing before him with the imposing shape of the throne behind him. “You were instructed not to go beyond our borders.”

He swallowed thickly. Legolas stood by his father’s throne, watching. “I didn’t expect to go so far...”

“And yet you failed to turn back when it became clear that your hunt took you beyond the scope of your duty,” he said, tilting his head, his stare cold and calculating. “In the process, you were taken hostage by a vagrant orc, and set a poor example for your apprentice.”

Crowley, on his knees behind Aziraphale with Tauriel holding a blade to his throat, rolled his eyes. The king really was as pompous as they said. He’d had his doubts until then. Thranduil continued his detached rant heedlessly. “You will not be sent on patrol for the foreseeable future,” he said. “You are assigned indefinitely to keeping the keys to the cells, and guarding the prisoners therein, until I see fit to say otherwise.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped a little more. “Yes, sire,” he said. No more fresh air and country rambles for a while, then. 

“Now, since I refuse to dignify this creature with a trial,” he said, casting a judgemental eye toward Crowley. “I will examine the evidence myself. Tell me, Captain... What manner of indignity befell you at the hands of your captor?”

“Um... none, as I recall,” he said nervously, resisting the urge to look back. Tauriel tilted her head, surprised. 

“As you recall? Well, then allow me to jog your memory,” the king pressed on ruthlessly, towering over him, invading his space. Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Did he torment you with threats, or foul speculations about what he might do to you?”

“He did not,” he said, standing a little taller to look the king in the face. 

“Did he beat you?” he said, tilting his head slowly. He didn’t blink. 

“No, I was entirely unwounded,” he said. He was determined not to waver in the face of this blatant intimidation. Thranduil was trying to find a raw nerve, something to agitate, to make him regret defying orders. It was punishment for him as much as it was a ‘trial’ for Crowley.

“Did he violate you?” he said.

“No!” Aziraphale cried, alarmed. Thranduil hummed, drawing back, mulling over that information. 

“It seems you’ve been fortunate, Captain Aziraphale, to be captured by the only orc in Middle Earth who was born without teeth,” he said derisively. He glanced at Crowley, who helpfully flashed his pointed teeth in a broad, mocking smile. “A lifetime rotting in a cell is ample punishment, I should think. Your first task as warden will be to take him to his prison, Captain. Let this be a lesson to you. Dismissed.”

Aziraphale bowed, then turned to take his charge from Tauriel. She fixed him with a gentle, pitying stare, which he carefully avoided. Crowley didn’t fight when he was urged to his feet, allowing himself to be guided peacefully down the stairs and into a hallway. Then, when they were alone, he glanced over his shoulder and curled his lip.

“That’s what you’ve got to put up with, have you?” he said. 

“Thranduil is very wise. He’s been merciful to us both,” he replied half-heartedly. They were already coming close to the cells. 

“What are you, his PR consultant?” he said. “He’s a dick, alba.”

Aziraphale huffed, coming to the deep rift in the palace, where iron cell doors lined each wall of the canyon. He knew of one which was a little roomier than the rest, whose door was stationed in a nook in the wall where he might glean a little privacy. This cell couldn’t be seen as you approached it, not only as it was concealed by the uneven wall, but also because the path was thin here, and most people were more focused on not falling into the deep chasm on their other side. Crowley went into the cell and stood in the middle, glancing around.

“So... this is my home for the next however-many-centuries I live, is it?” he said with a sigh. He sat down heavily on the cot. 

“Mightn’t you live longer...?” Aziraphale said hopefully, reluctantly shutting the cell door. 

“Well, yeah. Not sure I’d want to, though,” he said, leaning back with a huff. “Sat in a cave, always just waiting for my next meal... what sort of life is that?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands together, burning with guilt. This orc didn’t deserve to be here. He should never have been hunted in the first place; he was only defending himself. “I’ll come and visit,” he said. “Maybe I could even... bring you things, to pass the time. I’d have to be very careful indeed, but it’s the least I could do. I can’t help but feel this is all my fault.”

Crowley looked over at him, an impressed smile tugging at his features. “Still bending the rules, even now?”

He smiled back sheepishly. “Only for a good cause, you understand.”

“Count me honoured,” he said, standing up, reaching through the bars to shake his hand. Aziraphale took it. “Until next time, alba.”

Aziraphale was true to his word. He’d stop by Crowley’s cell while he patrolled, talk for as long as he could afford, and move on before the next guard in the rotation caught up to him. He noticed, after a few days, that Crowley’s appearance was deteriorating. He looked more... orc-ish than he remembered. His hair was unkempt, and his teeth were starting to become discoloured. His nails grew longer, their sharp tips starting to curl into something more talon-like. Crowley noticed it, too. It made him grumpy, and stressed. All he wanted was a bath, was that too much to ask? 

Aziraphale arrived one morning, looking slightly hassled. “Hello there,” he said to a half-awake Crowley. 

He sat up. “Didn’t think you were on duty this morning.”

“I’m not. Here,” he said, passing something through the bars. “Don’t let anyone see you with it. Toodles.”

He scowled after him as he disappeared from the gate. “Toodles...?” he echoed disdainfully, before finally looking at what he’d thrust into his hands. It was a toothbrush and a comb, wrapped in a soft washcloth. A smile twitched onto his face. “Huh. Not bad, alba... Not bad.”

Aziraphale provided Crowley with plenty of things that he wouldn’t otherwise have had. The wash-kit was only the start. He also slipped a softer blanket through the bars, and some extra stuffing for his pillow. Once he heard that they’d been feeding Crowley on a diet of meat alone, he also started to drop off pieces of fruit and vegetables, to keep the dreaded scurvy at bay. He’d even managed to slip a skinful of wine into his cell once, though it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take very often. People would definitely start asking questions if a prisoner got drunk. 

Aziraphale arrived for his usual visit, several weeks after Crowley first arrived, with a pensive frown. “Something wrong, alba?” he asked. 

Aziraphale absent-mindedly passed a carrot through the bars. “Yes, um... I had a day off yesterday, as you know, and I ventured out into the woods,” he said. Crowley nodded, biting off the end of the carrot. “You won’t believe what I found out there, barely a stone’s throw from the palace.”

“What? Thranduil’s humility or something?” he said. 

“No. Your warg,” he said. Crowley’s jaw went slack, half his carrot hanging comically from his pointed teeth. “He looked terribly frightened, and I’m not surprised. I led him out to a root-cavern at a bit of a safer distance, but good lord, that poor creature. He was all skin and bones.”

A guttural snarl escaped his throat, one that made Aziraphale jump and sent an unexpected thrill down his spine. “That stupid dog. I told him to run, not follow me,” he said, though Aziraphale could see the worry under his anger. “Was he hurt?”

“Not that I saw. I caught him some lunch before I left him, and I intend to go back to check on him as soon as I can,” he said. “He’s terribly weak. I shall have to nurse him back to health, or he... well, he won’t be long for this world.”

He nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thanks, alba.“

“Um...” he said, uncertain if he should ask. “Why do you call me that? Alba?”

He looked up, surprised. “Uh, it just means elf. It’s Black Speech,” he said. “I’ll stop, if you — “

“No, no. I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. He shrugged. “I just wondered if it was something... um... more...”

“Vulgar?”

“No, I — forget I mentioned it. It was a silly thought,” he said, his cheeks a little pink. 

“Alright,” he said, tilting his head. He felt that there was something he was missing, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. They shared a few more words before he left again, leaving Crowley in the dark, thinking about him. He did little else these days. His visits were the highlights of his day, and his gifts meant more than he could know. Orcs didn’t get much affection in their lives, especially not lone orcs. They were more likely to be hunted for sport by their brethren than anything else. Crowley reached back, feeling the two long scars on his shoulderblades from where he’d had his lucky escape from his tribe. He’d left out that part, when he told Aziraphale where he’d come from. 

Then, there was Aziraphale. The elf. _Mas alba_ , as Crowley had begun to think of him; _my elf._ He’d repaid Crowley for sparing his life a thousand times over already, and now he was protecting Rover, too. He felt silly, almost guilty, for the warm affection he felt towards him. He had a life that was larger than the confines of this cell, and Crowley didn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was burden him with expectations of more. He reached into his pocket, tugging out the small square of silken fabric which Aziraphale had given him when he’d developed a sniffle a while ago. He hadn’t asked for it back. Crowley ran his fingers over it, careful not to let his overgrown claws catch the weave of the fabric. It still had a tiny hint of his scent...

“Where did you get that?”

Crowley jumped, instinctively turning to growl at whoever had crept up on him. It was Aziraphale’s red-haired apprentice, the one who’d been so keen to kill him before. “None of your beeswax,” he snapped, clutching it to his chest, retreating out of arm’s reach of the bars. 

“That was not made by any orc,” she observed suspiciously. “It must be stolen.”

“Come in here and try taking it off me, then,” he said, baring his teeth with a deep, rumbling snarl. “Dare you.”

She looked at him disdainfully. “I would prefer to keep all my fingers,” she said. 

He calmed a little at that, falling quiet. “Smart girl.”

“Captain Aziraphale has a similar handkerchief,” she said, tilting her head, watching the tension return to his shoulders. “Does he still have it, I wonder?”

Crowley twitched. “He dropped it.”

Tauriel gave a huff, half-triumphant, half-disgusted. She imagined that grey hand reaching out from the dark, hooking its claws around the delicate fabric which had fluttered to the ground out of some innocent mistake, and dragging it back into the shadows. “Do not think I have forgotten your crime, beast,” she said, squaring her shoulders. She’d noticed the fascination with which he touched the handkerchief, and it worried her deeply. “This vile fixation you have with my captain... it will not stand.”

He narrowed his eyes, and she turned to leave. “S’what you think,” he muttered bitterly. She paused, turning slightly; she’d heard him. After a beat of silence, she kept walking. He glared after her, a rebellious urge to prove her wrong driving his other urges to the surface. He believed that he mattered to Aziraphale, as more than just some charity case. Maybe it was time to prove that the feeling was mutual.


	3. To The World

Aziraphale knelt in a root cavern, with Rover’s head in his lap. He lazily wagged his tail as Aziraphale scratched his ears, having grown to trust the elf since he’d first found him, scared and emaciated, in the woods. Plus, he could smell his master on his clothes sometimes. He’d soon be in good condition again, though Aziraphale wasn’t sure where that would leave them. His master was in prison, and Thranduil would never release him until he was cold and dead. He sighed. 

The thought had occurred to him, more than once, to just unlock the cell door and smuggle him out of the palace, to freedom. He chastised himself heavily for it. It was against all the rules, against his duty; it would make him a traitor. Underneath that, he also loathed the idea of Crowley riding over the horizon never to be seen again, leaving Aziraphale behind in those cold palace walls. It was deeply selfish, wanting to keep him close even at the cost of his freedom... But there was something in his chest, some fierce, cut-throat feeling, that just didn’t care. Aziraphale had heard that love made people do terrible things, but hadn’t understood until now. He would’ve expected it to be a fiercer jolt of shock and self-disgust, realising he loved an orc, but it wasn’t like that at all. It felt right. Among elves, he’d never quite matched their detached air or disinterest in life beyond the wood. Loving Crowley was like the answer to a riddle he didn’t know he’d been asked, and it didn’t disturb him half as much as it should.

He said goodbye to Rover, and returned to the palace. He was lucky that no-one asked where he went every evening. His friends were few and far between, after all, and he had a reputation for wandering off who-knows-where. He hadn’t been counting on Tauriel waiting for him near the gates, though. 

“Aziraphale, where have you been?” she asked, falling into step beside him. “I was growing worried.”

“Oh, don’t fret about me, my dear. I can look after myself,” he said. He offered a weak smile, hoping no warg-fur had clung unnoticed to his cloak.

She arched a brow. “Last time you went too far from the palace, you were kidnapped by an orc.”

“He was a very clever orc, though, wasn’t he? Wily, somehow, and... and rather brilliant, really...” he said, his eyes glazing over for a moment. Tauriel frowned. 

“It almost sounds as if you like him,” she said. He jumped, coming back to himself.

“Well! I never,” he said, flustered. He sped up, hurrying away from her. “Don’t even suggest such things, Tauriel. Really.”

Unsettled by Tauriel’s suspicions, he retreated to his rooms. If anyone found out how he felt about this rogue orc... They’d kill Crowley, to be sure, and exile Aziraphale immediately after. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d read too many tragic love stories, pilfered (or _permanently borrowed_ , as he liked to think) from human travellers to let his life become one. He left it a few days before visiting his favourite orc again. He needed to allay suspicion.

When he finally got around to it, he found him on his back, staring at the ceiling. “Hello again,” Aziraphale said, pausing by the bars. “Is everything alright, dear?”

“You’ve been gone a while,” he replied tightly. He’d begun to wonder if something had happened to him; something like Thranduil discovering his smuggling habit. “Something important come up?”

“Just trying to dispel a little suspicion,” he said, glancing over his shoulder in case someone on the other side of the breach was watching. “Tauriel is beginning to smell a rat.”

“Bothering you too, was she?” he said, sitting up to face him. “She reckons I’m obsessed with you.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth began to twitch into something resembling a smile, surprising Crowley. “How silly,” he said, clearing his throat and glancing away. 

Crowley swallowed hard. He wasn’t blind; there was a blush on his cheeks. “Maybe not completely.”

“What was that?” he said, sharply turning back, eyes wide. 

He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I do like you, you know. You’re not bad,” he said, examining his nails to avoid losing his nerve. “For an elf.”

He kicked himself for adding that at the end, but when he glanced up, Aziraphale looked... almost flattered. “I like you too,” he said quietly. “Erm. I don’t have anything for you this time, I’m afraid, but...”

He trailed off, reaching through the bars. Crowley was confused for a moment, until he realised what he was offering instead of a piece of fruit or a poem he’d found. Crowley reached out, and took his hand. It was delicate, perfectly manicured, so unlike his long, clawed fingers. His eyes flicked up, meeting Aziraphale’s. He was watching him intently. It was up to Crowley, to decide if this was just a friendly handshake or something far more meaningful. Without breaking eye contact, constantly watching for any sign of discomfort, Crowley raised Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Aziraphale smiled bashfully, like he’d just been showered in lavish praise. Crowley’s heart skipped a beat. 

He stood up, daring to close the space between them, until only the cell bars stood in the way. The gaps were more than wide enough for his purposes, though. He leaned in as far as he dared, until he felt his breath against his skin, and left the choice up to Aziraphale. The elf seized his chance, closing the gap, surprised by how softly Crowley reciprocated. Realising he loved an orc felt right, but discovering he reciprocated was electrifying, and he felt it in every soft press of Crowley’s lips against his. He’d fallen, and he’d fallen hard. They pulled apart, and Crowley found that all the affection had begun to go to his head, too. He had one more thing he wanted to try. One more thing, a fantasy which he hadn’t dared entertain until now...

“D’you trust me, alba?” he murmured. Aziraphale nodded, his pupils blown wide with desire. In that moment, he’d have done anything for him. 

Crowley dropped his mouth to Aziraphale’s throat, brushing his lips against it experimentally, testing if he would flinch away. He didn’t. He held still, and Crowley grew bolder, reaching through the bars to hold the back of his neck while he nipped and sucked at the front. He relished the feeling of his pulse against his lips, his warmth, the delicate flesh beneath his razorblade teeth... He was careful not to break the skin. He was deliberate, rhythmic, reverent, until Aziraphale was gasping and gripping the cell’s bars like a lifeline. He could scarcely believe what he was doing. Every worshipful pass of those teeth sent a thrill down his body as years of training fell by the wayside, and he tilted back his head to let an orc take his life in his hands.

Footsteps began to approach from the right. Crowley sharply pulled back. Aziraphale gasped, wide-eyed and too lost in sensation to process anything but the terror of being caught in the act. “Alba, run!” Crowley hissed, drawing back from the bars. Aziraphale snapped back to reality, and fled in the opposite direction. 

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath, collapsing onto his cot. He could hardly believe what just happened, what Aziraphale had let him do... He brushed his fingertips over his mouth. He really did trust him, didn’t he? A self-respecting orc would have torn his throat out the instant he was within range. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, when the footsteps stopped by his cell door. He turned to face them. It was Tauriel; a self-satisfied grin curled his lips, knowing what he’d just done. He’d had his teeth around her captain’s throat. In other words, he’d proven her wrong. 

“Hi,” he drawled. 

“Did Aziraphale pass this way?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. She’d picked up on his inexplicable smugness, but wasn’t sure where it had come from. 

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t recall,” he said, swiping his tongue over his lips for good measure, as if he’d just finished eating something especially tasty.

Tauriel huffed, hurrying onward. He was useless. She should’ve expected him to be uncooperative. He was only goading her, taunting her with suggestions of the vile thoughts passing back and forth behind his eyes, almost certainly all focused on her mentor. She hoped Aziraphale was ignorant of them. Running the dungeons kept him too busy these days to take note of one low-life orc, she reasoned. It was a case of megalomania, on the prisoner’s part, she was sure; he’d catch glimpses of Aziraphale in passing, on patrol, and think of all the things he might’ve done, if he’d known that kidnapping him would be his last free act. Tauriel shuddered. Maybe it was better if she didn’t tell Aziraphale about the orc’s fascination with him. It would only worry him. 

She found Aziraphale the next morning, digging through the fruit bowl in the kitchens. She tapped on his shoulder. “Ah, Tauriel. Good morning,” he said, turning around. Her jaw went slack. “Erm... Is something the matter?”

“Uh — You have a — a — “ she stammered, gesturing at her own neck, unable to take her eyes off the conspicuous love-bite in the middle of his throat. Aziraphale frowned, picking up a silver plate to inspect his reflection. He gasped in horror.

“Oh Good lord!” he cried, throwing down the plate and trying to cover the bite with his hand. “I didn’t realise — oh dear. How embarrassing. Um.” 

She bit her lip to stifle a laugh, overcoming her shock. “That explains why I couldn’t find you yesterday afternoon,” she said. Aziraphale was an oddball, as elves went; he was easily flustered, and not afraid to show it. Tauriel found it very endearing. “I had no idea you were involved with someone.”

“Well... it’s a rather, um... recent development, I admit,” he said skittishly. He avoided her gaze, his ears burning, and hurried back to where he’d hung his bag on a hook. Tauriel followed. 

“Tell me about them,” she urged, smiling broadly as he dug through the bag. Aziraphale often seemed like a lonely soul to her, often avoided by the other elves, and she was delighted to see him finally taking an interest in someone. “I did not believe there was an elf in the Greenwood who could turn your head.”

“Hmph! Charming,” he said, finally finding the silken scarf which had been lying in the bottom of his satchel for months. He was glad he’d forgotten to take it out. “Why is my love life of sudden interest to you, Tauriel?”

“Curiosity. I’m pleased for you, Aziraphale,” she said with a light smile. Seeing that she was genuine — and more importantly, not suspicious — he relented.

“Well... he’s very handsome, in a roguish sort of way,” he said, arranging the scarf carefully to cover the mark. She listened intently, wondering who he might mean. “He’s oh-so-clever, sometimes too much for his own good, and he’s... well... difficult to describe, I suppose.”

“Do you love him?” she asked, with a dreamy look in her eye. She looked forward to the day she might find love, like she could see in her captain’s eye. 

“I think I do, my dear,” he said with a shy smile. “I think I do.”

Crowley raised a brow at the sight of the scarf around Aziraphale’s neck. “What’s that for, alba?” he said with a smirk. 

“You know full well, you fiend,” he bit back, putting his hands on his hips. 

Crowley reached through the bars, hooking a claw over the silk and pulling it down. He whistled. “Nice bit of handiwork if you ask me,” he said proudly. He bared his teeth. “Fancy another?”

“Keep your fangs to yourself. This one got me in enough trouble this morning as it is,” he said, rolling his eyes affectionately and pulling the scarf back over the bite. 

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “No one recognised the toothmarks, did they?” he said, turning serious. “I didn’t even bite that hard.”

“No, no, nothing like that... but it’s asking for trouble, Crowley, if I have to pretend to have some mysterious lover in the palace,” he said. He looked down, fiddling with his hands. 

“You do have a mysterious lover in the palace.”

“You know what I mean!” he said, crossing his arms. He sighed. He had to approach this topic somehow. It couldn’t wait... not anymore, at least. “We can’t go on like this, Crowley.”

Crowley blinked. “Oh. Right,” he said, his shoulders slumping. He took a step back, and looked away, swallowing back the hurt. He should’ve known it was too good to be true. “Back to how it was before, then...?”

“What on earth are you on about?” Aziraphale said with a withering frown. Crowley looked up in surprise. “You can’t just make me fall in love with you and expect nothing to change, you silly orc.”

“Oh,” Crowley said faintly. If he’d been even slightly less in control of himself, he’d have fainted on the spot. His knees felt a bit weak. “Good to know.”

Aziraphale watched him for a moment. He was stunned, and flattered, but didn’t quite realise the gravity of what he was saying. “You do realise that elves fall in love only once in their lives, don’t you?” he said, looking him in the eye. All the colour drained from Crowley’s face, turning him from stone-grey to corpse-grey. 

“Shit... Alba, I’m so sorry...”

“Oh, don’t be... I’ve always been somewhat of a black sheep,” he said with a hesitant smile. He suddenly wavered, a flash of trepidation crossing his features. “Do you... erm, feel the same? Dear me, I really should’ve asked...”

A short laugh escaped his throat. “In case you forgot, alba, _I_ kissed _you,”_ he said, leaning up against the bars. “I’m all yours, if you’ll have me.”

He beamed. “Gladly,” he said, taking his hand through the gate and giving it a short squeeze, desperate to hurry things along. “Now, I think you’ve spent more than enough time in this blasted cage, don’t you?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Wow. All I needed to do was kiss you, and now you’re planning a prison break?” he said, grinning. His eyes dragged down his body. “I wonder what you’d have done for me if there had been no bars between us...”

“Told you to slow down,” he replied glibly. 

Crowley laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “So, this escape plan...”

“It happens tonight,” he said, to Crowley’s surprise. He spun some excuse about not wanting to waste a day, but in truth, other events had forced his hand. A rushed confession and a daredevil plot would never have been his first choice, but he’d received new orders that morning after his chat with Tauriel. He’d had a cursory flick through and, on page five, his blood ran cold. A date for Crowley’s execution had been set.

Aziraphale explained his plan in a low voice, while Crowley listened carefully. He wasn’t the only one. Tauriel stood on the ledge above his cell, sheet-white, feeling sick with betrayal. She’d heard everything. When she’d heard Aziraphale’s voice below as she’d passed, she’d at first been worried that the orc had said something offensive or vulgar to draw him in. But then... the familiarity that they spoke with, the affection and trust, was like a blow to the stomach. The mentor who she’d respected since her very first day in the guard had thrown in his lot with a rogue orc. He was turning against his own people. She still heard him below, laying out his plot to escape the palace unseen, and never return. He was abandoning them. 

She heard him share a kiss with his illicit lover before hurrying away down the narrow path. She set her jaw. He could be reasoned with, she was certain. He’d simply been tempted by the beast, made to look elsewhere for the joy he’d once gotten from being the respected captain, before his punishment. He just needed a reminder of who he really was. He was lonely, yes, but she couldn’t imagine how it could warp his mind so much that he would fall for an orc. It couldn’t be love. She turned away, determined to intercept him, to give him an ultimatum that very night. She would keep it secret until then. He didn’t deserve to lose everything just because he had lost his way, after all. She could still save him. 

Everything Aziraphale needed was prepared. He had enough rations to last the two of them a few days, and all Crowley’s personal effects. His own blade was back on his hip. Rover would be waiting under the oak, wagging his tail, watching the moon. Freedom was close at hand. Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, realising just what a huge leap he was making, casting aside everything he’d ever known in the Greenwood. Not that it had ever served him well... Crowley made him happier than any elf, and that was proof enough for him that he didn’t deserve to be hanged for a crime which had already been forgiven. 

He grabbed the key to his cell, and hurried down the winding paths in the cavern. It was nearly pitch black, with only the odd lantern to light the most treacherous ledges. He was a little more than a shadow moving over the stone. He found that familiar cell, where Crowley sat on the very edge of his bed, his shoulders tense. He brightened when he recognised the silhouette by his door.

“Tread lightly,” Aziraphale whispered, sliding the key into the lock. Crowley nodded, and kept quiet, waiting.

“Aziraphale, stop,” a voice called. He froze, the key half-turned. He peered around the outcrop of wall, finding Tauriel’s familiar outline on the shadowy path. He surreptitiously turned the key the rest of the way, unlocking the gate with a quiet _snick_ which he hid beneath the sound of his feet on the grit.

“Tauriel, what a surprise,” he said politely, emerging and taking a few steps toward her. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I didn’t know you were on duty tonight.”

“I’m not. Nor are you,” she said tautly. 

“You must be mistaken,” he said, speaking clearly enough that Crowley was sure to hear. He prayed he was coming up with something clever, or they were both doomed. “I’m on patrol.”

“I heard what you said, Aziraphale. I know who gave you that mark,” she said heedlessly, pointing to the scarf still around his neck. He gulped. “You are a captain of the Greenwood, a protector of these lands. That orc is not worthy of you.”

“An o— ? My dear girl, I still have no idea what you mean,” he said skittishly. “Me — a loyal guardsman, as you so kindly pointed out — baring my throat to my hereditary enemy? Balderdash.”

“You always were a poor liar,” she said with a hint of bittersweet affection. She took another step forward, and he flinched. “I have told no one of your affair, Aziraphale. You can still turn back, and be the honourable captain I once knew. He will only use you and leave you for dead. Please, for your own sake if no-one else’s... end this.”

He looked at her for a long, saddening moment, half-expecting his opinion to change, as if it really had all been a spell, too wonderful to be real. It didn’t budge. “Very well,” he said, looking down at his feet. Tauriel sighed in relief. “The orc’s door will stay locked and shut.”

”Thank you, Aziraphale. I knew you would see sense,” she said warmly.

He gave a weak smile, shuffling his feet to disguise the sound of the recently-oiled gate opening behind him. “Would you like to accompany me? I may as well do my rounds while I’m here.” 

She inclined her head. “Gladly,” she said, following along. He’d need her support, after coming so close to such a grave choice. Aziraphale disappeared behind the twist in the path first. She followed, and came to a sharp halt. 

The yellow-eyed orc stood, stone still, in the doorway to his cell. His eyes reflected the murky glow of the lanterns, the only pinpricks of light in the deep shadows under the rock, fixed on her with a hunter’s focus. He made no noise. She glanced ahead, but Aziraphale was gone, vanished into the shadows. It was eerily silent. She had expected curses and threats from the orc, or even for him to lash out, now he’d been spurned. She paused before him. Something wasn’t right here... She realised an instant too late that the door was open.

He wrenched her into the cell, cutting off her cry of alarm. Stone rushed up to meet her, slamming into her skull. Her ears rung as she lay, stunned, an odd warmth spreading over her scalp. A hand clamped over her mouth before she had a chance to recover. 

“Crowley, be gentle!” Aziraphale cried, reappearing at the cell door, choking on his shame. He’d hidden just out of sight, waiting for Crowley to ambush her. He’d understood his signal, in the form of a blatant lie: _the orc’s door will stay locked and shut._

“I’m being as gentle as I can, alba!” he hissed over his shoulder as Tauriel began to struggle underneath him. “Toss me your scarf, and something to bind her hands.”

Tauriel glared, outnumbered and outmatched in brute strength, as they gagged her on a silk scarf and bound her hands with the ropes from Aziraphale’s travel bag. They lifted her onto the cot, and Aziraphale checked her head wound. It was only a scratch. She was tough; she’d been through worse and come back stronger. 

“I am sorry, my dear,” he said, sincere as his declaration of love that morning, as his stomach churned relentlessly. She mumbled something incoherent around the gag, but he understood. “Yes, I know. I lied, and I’m not proud of it.”

“She was fool enough to believe you,” Crowley pointed out flippantly, keeping watch by the door. He glanced around, paranoid. “C’mon, alba, we gotta go.”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he said, picking his bag back up. He looked at Tauriel with one last apologetic, guilty smile. “Like I told you, my dear: love doesn’t stop at borders and barriers. Maybe one day, you’ll understand, and... and may we meet again, on a better occasion.”

He turned, fleeing into the dark, and closing the cell behind him. No one would find her until the morning guard patrol began. Once they did, though, she’d tell them everything. Aziraphale would never be welcome in the Greenwood again. He’d be denounced, disgraced, and despised. It was too late to change any of that now. He looked at Crowley’s warm yellow eyes, took his hand, and led him away from his prison. All that was a small price to pay, for the life of the man he loved. Besides, maybe he had been right, when he’d first arrived here...

Thranduil was a bit of a dick. 

He knew the pattern of the guard patrols for that night. He’d planned them, after all. They navigated the cell caverns easily, and came out into the palace proper. The next step of the plan was daring. If it worked, it would be a brazen insult to the king’s guard, though admittedly not as bad as one of his most trusted captains eloping with a Gundabad orc. News of this would no doubt give the Rivendell elves a hearty chuckle at his expense. He handed Crowley a closed-fronted helm, and a long watchman’s cloak. If all went well, they were simply going to walk right out the front door. 

Aziraphale held his head high as they approached the doors. The guards stood to attention. “Halt,” one said. “Who goes there?”

“Captain Aziraphale, of the guard,” he replied. “Let me pass.”

“On what business?” he said jadedly. 

“I’ve been alerted that there may be a warg on the trails. I’ve been ordered to investigate immediately,” he said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword to prove a point. 

“For one warg?” he questioned, sharing a sceptical glance with his colleague, who only shrugged. She’d have let him through already. 

“One warg _scout_ , you impertinent boy!” he snapped, making him jump. “Now unless you’d like to be taken off-guard by an orc-pack in the dead of night and count yourself responsible for the deaths of your colleagues outside, I suggest you let me through!” 

“Y — Yessir!” he said, standing back. With a final huff, Aziraphale brushed past, muttering about the youth of today just for good measure. Crowley followed, no doubt grinning madly beneath his helmet. 

They ventured into the trees until they were out of view, at which point Crowley shrugged off the cloak and tossed the helmet through the forest. “Alba, you jammy bastard,” he said with a grin. He grabbed him by the waist, pushing him back against a tree and kissing him hungrily. He pulled back, panting. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Nor can I. This is going to cause a terrible scandal for the king, you know,” he said, trying to sound guilty about it. They kept straight faces for all of about five seconds, and burst out laughing. 

The noise carried. Heavy footfalls crashed through the undergrowth, shocking them apart. Crowley barely had time to brace himself before a familiar grey shape burst from cover, bowling him over into the dirt. Crowley grunted, pinned down by the slobbering warg licking his face. “Eurgh — Rover — geroff,” he said, pushing him back. “You great lump. Yes, I know, good to see you too.”

“He missed you terribly,” Aziraphale said, helping him up. Rover wagged his tail in agreement, his tongue lolling out. “You have a very loyal friend here, darling.”

“So have you, by the looks of it. He’s not this friendly toward everyone he meets,” he said, swinging himself into the familiar saddle. He gestured for Aziraphale to join him. “Hop up. We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover before we’re out of the woods — literally.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and sat behind him in the saddle, his arms around his waist. Now they were free, he truly came to realise how cruel it was, those bars keeping them apart. Crowley gave a short whistle, and Rover lurched forward into the shadows, bounding over logs and streams with practised ease. Once he got used to the jostling, Aziraphale began to find his gait relaxing. Or, on second thought, maybe that was just the cool breeze in his hair and the soft moonlight flickering through the canopy. On third thought, it might also be the familiarity of Crowley held so close to him, like there had never been barriers between them. This could be the best decision he’d ever made. He smiled, and hugged him closer. He felt Crowley look over his shoulder, and didn’t need to look up to know that he was smiling, too. 

When they broke out from the shadow of the forest, dawn was breaking, gilding the fields and setting the trees alight like fireflies on the far horizon. The whole world seemed to unravel before them. Crowley tugged on Rover’s fur, slowing him to a halt in the grasses. He puffed and panted, but pawed at the ground, eager to keep running. Aziraphale felt the same. He wanted to go everywhere, to chase the horizon, to see what had been hidden from him for so long amid the confines of the Greenwood. He wanted to see it all. 

“Where to, alba?” Crowley asked. 

“To the world,” he said dreamily. 

Crowley grinned, and Rover surged forward again through the fields, wild and free and unfettered by even a single worry. The Greenwood soon faded to a smudge on the horizon, and Aziraphale never looked back.


	4. The Lost Captain

For years, life on the road suited Aziraphale and Crowley. They’d travel between settlements and landmarks, though they’d learnt relatively quickly that it was better for them to camp in the wilds than it was to get a room in a tavern. Though Aziraphale liked pretend he just enjoyed spooning in a tent (or f _-orc_ -ing, if the mood took them), there were more practical concerns at hand, too. It tended to cause tension every time Crowley set foot in an inn without covering his face, and, well... They’d gotten banned from a few places too. 

When they finally got round to it, Aziraphale discovered that orcs could be very, very vocal during sex; all the snarling and growling could be unnerving at best, and downright frightening at worst, to anyone close enough to overhear. The first time they’d actually realised this was after one especially wild night, when a sheet-white landlord tapped on their door the morning after, clearly hoping they wouldn’t answer, and timidly asked them if they would please leave. Crowley found it very funny. Aziraphale, however, was mortified as he suddenly realised why so many innkeepers refused to rent them a room after the first time. Checking out at the bar was an ordeal in itself; talk about a walk of shame. His ears were burning for days.

Eventually, a life of adventure began to weigh on them. They’d travelled widely, causing trouble and often making it worse in an attempt to fix it, and had a jolly good time in the process. Still, that much freedom didn’t always call for a life on the road. Aziraphale began to long for a home. Not the one he had left, of course; he wanted a new home, somewhere he and Crowley could feel safe. Ideally, it would be a woodland. A cottage, even! A nice stone house, with lots of bookshelves and a warm hearth and a soft feather bed...

Crowley raised a brow, listening to this grand plan over the campfire. “Sounds very... quaint,” he said. 

“You could have a nice garden to look after,” he bargained. “I know you’ve always been keen on plants.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, knowing he was defeated. “Fine, we’ll settle down, on one condition,” he said, holding up a finger. “I get to decorate the inside.”

Aziraphale mulled it over for a moment. Crowley was trying to avoid the ‘ugly’ patterned fabrics Aziraphale had taken a liking to, but he could be persuaded to make some concessions if his darling lover did his best puppy-eyes. “Deal,” he said. 

They found an uninhabited woodland in the eastern foothills of the Misty Mountains, a safe distance from any main travelling roads, with fertile land that no-one who claimed to own. There were a few other farms around there, but none were close enough to know about their new neighbours right away. That was probably best. Crowley would take a lot of getting used to. Aziraphale was delighted to hear, on the grapevine, that he was not the only elf in the vicinity, too. There was a couple who had travelled north from Lórien in search of a humbler life, or so he heard. Aziraphale suspected they’d been exiled, and just didn’t want to say so. He didn’t blame them. They’d probably guessed the same of him, hearing that a Greenwood elf had settled nearby. He wasn’t in a position to judge, though; he was pledged to an orc, all said and done.

It was a cold night for the company of Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo was on watch duty until midnight, his frayed nerves making him jump at every rustle and snap. After being attacked by goblins and facing down Azog the Defiler, he’d at least have hoped for a good night’s sleep. Apparently not. Having proven himself as a trusted member of the company, he was given extra responsibility. Typical. He leaned on his fist, trying to stay calm without falling asleep. 

A glimmer of light caught his attention. He blinked, lifting his head. Smoke plumed high into the air above it, almost invisible against the dark sky, and he wondered how long it had been there before he noticed it. This was no small fire. It must have been burning for a while... He nudged the dwarf closest to him, nervous. 

“Kili,” he whispered. The dwarf stirred, and tried to bat him away. “I see something. A fire, over there.”

“Mph... you’re on watch, _you_ look...” he mumbled, burying his head in his arm. 

Bilbo gulped, and looked out toward the fire. Well... he had a sword (or letter-opener, depending on who you asked), and a very clever magic ring in his pocket. Why shouldn’t he go and look? If he saw anything dangerous, he could simply disappear. He straightened up, squared his shoulders, and marched forward into the trees. 

He crept through the brush, dodging between the bushes. The air grew thick with smoke, and he began to feel heat on his skin. Flames crackled hungrily ahead of him. He heard no sign of danger besides that; no goblin-screeches, no wretch of _gollum, gollum_ , no Black Speech bellowing over the fire... All he heard was a loud, shrill wail. His heart dropped. 

“A baby,” he realised aloud, and broke into a run. 

The trees opened up, revealing a makeshift farm upon the sloped ground — or what was left of it. A large, crumbling farmhouse stood at the far side of the barren field, its roof half-caved and dashed across the ground by an enormous boulder which had struck the home on its way down from the mountain. A deep furrow was left in the earth where it fell, dragging brick and blood with it. An arm stuck out from beneath it, motionless. 

Bilbo paled, and sprinted to the ruin of the house. A woman’s body lay draped at a deeply unnatural angle over a broken wall, limp and lifeless. The hearth had broken its banks, spreading fire over the scattered thatch and splinters from the roof. He looked around desperately as he stood at the edge of a broken life, silently begging the child to cry out again, to show him where it was. His prayer was answered. A weak, pained cry went up from the far side. A small, pink hand reached out, grasping at nothing, at a vain hope that its parents would come. 

“I’m coming, just wait, wait there,” Bilbo called, hoping the sound of a voice, any voice, might comfort the poor thing. He jumped into the ruin, narrowly dodging the fire. The wind was against him, stoking it with every passing second. He didn’t have time to call for help. 

He stumbled, catching his foot on a remnant of the wall, and the shift rippled up the delicate structure. Something snapped. He barely had time to look up before a rafter crashed down onto him, pinning him to the ground. He groaned, struggling, but couldn’t move an inch. The wood was too heavy. He was trapped, and lucky not to have any broken bones. The baby wailed again, disturbed by the noise, and the section of roof above it creaked dangerously. Bilbo cried out in alarm.

“No, no — HELP! Someone, Kili, Thorin! Gandalf!” he shrieked as the roof shuddered again. Debris crumbled from it, threatening to drop something heavier, something fatal. The infant wailed louder. Bilbo thumped his hands uselessly on the rafter holding him down, trying to shift it. It was no use. Flames licked closer, stooping over the rubble with interest. If the rafter caught fire, he was done for. “For god’s sake, HELP!”

He looked over at the baby while he struggled, as if he might drag himself closer. The acrid air clipped his throat. The infant wriggled, helpless, still swaddled in soot-stained cloth in its collapsed crib. Something moved in the forest beyond the house. Bilbo gasped, waving his arms desperately. 

“Over here! Hey! We need help!” he cried hoarsely. The shadow moved again, prowling up the slope. Bilbo choked on his words, his stomach twisting. The outline of a warg appeared through the trees, snuffling the ground. Worse still, it had a rider. 

The firelight played on the harsh lines of an orc’s face as the warg padded closer to the ruin, sniffing cautiously. His hair was a deep bloody red, and his amber eyes held a savage gleam in the half-shadows. Bilbo whimpered, pressing himself low to the ground as if he might yet pass unseen despite his cries. The orc swung himself down off the saddle and approached the house, jumping up onto the remains of a wall. Bilbo daren’t move. A scimitar hung from the orc’s belt, alongside twin daggers which would make short work of a trapped hobbit. 

The baby shrieked. The orc’s eyes snapped onto the source of the noise, concealed behind a pile of brick. Bilbo’s stomach turned. “No! No, you stay away from that baby!” he yelled, thrashing desperately, abandoning any attempt to stay unseen. “Don’t you dare! Not another step, I’m warning you!”

The orc glanced over to him, but disregarded him immediately. He didn’t seem surprised. Bilbo panted, realising he must’ve known where he was all along. The creature stepped up onto the rubble, crouching down to loom over the baby. It quietened as his shadow fell over it. 

“Don’t you lay a finger on that child. Do you hear me? You keep those hands to yourself and just — just get back on your warg and go away!” Bilbo ranted, swiping at the air in vain, too far to have any effect. The orc reached down, pulling the the baby out of its crib with both hands. Bilbo watched in abject horror. It moved to cradle the child in one arm, pulling the blankets away from its face with one wickedly sharp claw. “Put. It. Down! I’m not alone out here you know,” Bilbo said, his heart in his mouth. The baby was so tiny, so delicate and scared, with no comprehension of what kind of monster they were facing. It reached up, grasping weakly at the orc’s shirt. Bilbo flinched, expecting it to retaliate harshly. “There’s a whole company of dwarves nearby — big, burly mean buggers — and they’ll be on their way to look for me right now!”

The orc finally looked up. Bilbo faltered for a moment, faced with those grey, ghoulish features. “They’ll find you, will they?” he said. His voice was surprisingly soft, and utterly unreadable. 

Bilbo nodded fervently. “Yes, absolutely. If I were you, I’d leave the baby and just make a run for it. Trust me, you don’t want to be caught by this lot,” he said. “Tell your boss there was nothing here, and — and I’ll not even mention I saw you. That’s a deal, isn’t it?”

He opened his mouth, but a shout rang out from the woods. “Bilbo? BILBO?” roared a familiar voice. The hobbit twisted around, heart lurching. The orc leased a guttural snarl, baring his teeth. The baby wailed. 

“THORIN!” he screamed, expecting to feel a scimitar on his throat at any moment. A confusion of shouts rang out from the woods as the other dwarves roused too, crying out for their burglar. 

He turned back, and did a double take. The orc was not where he’d last been. He ran back to his warg, pulling himself into the saddle. Bilbo almost grinned, before he spotted the wriggling bundle of cloth still clutched against his chest. “HEY! No, that wasn’t the deal!” he shouted. “Put that back! Stop!”

The orc wasn’t listening. He snarled out a command in a language Bilbo didn’t know, and the warg lurched into motion, loping away into the trees. The shadows swallowed them whole, leaving nothing put enormous paw-prints to prove they were ever there at all. 

Bilbo writhed and struggled, even as the voices of the company approached. Thorin was the first to arrive. He wasted no time, gripping the rafter and lifting with a shout of exertion. The others emerged from the trees just as Bilbo struggled back to his feet. Thorin’s hands clasped his shoulders tightly. 

“What were you thinking, running off in the night?” he barked, checking him over for wounds. He was frantic, wide-eyed, still indebted to the hobbit after he’d stood so bravely against Azog. “Why didn’t you wake someone?”

Bilbo shot a glance at Kili, who looked guiltily at his feet. “I just went to look,” he said. “But there was a baby, there in the rubble, and I — “

“A baby? Where?” Gloin said, scanning the ruins. 

“No baby here, Master Baggins,” said Dori, glancing at the house. 

He batted Thorin’s hands off, and huffed in frustration. “Yes, if you would just let me finish!” he said. “There was a baby, and I got trapped under that rafter as I went to help. There was no time to call someone.”

“And what became of the child, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked, squinting out into the shadowy forest with suspicion. 

“An orc,” he said. The whole company fell into somber silence. “He took the baby, right in front of me, and made off in that direction on a warg.” 

Bofur shared a rueful glance with Balin. “Orc food,” he mumbled under his breath, earning a nod and a sigh from the elder dwarf. “Poor little tot...”

Thorin sighed, hanging his head. The crumbling home in front of him told a story that he knew all too well. “You made a valiant effort, Master Baggins,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder and turning back toward their camp. “Do not blame yourself for the fate of the child. Come, and get some sleep. Bifur can keep watch for the rest of your shift.”

Bilbo spluttered in protest as the dwarves began to migrate back to their camp. “Wh — but — you can’t just do nothing,” he said. “An orc took that baby. You hear what I’m saying, don’t you? An orc. How can you just walk away?”

Gandalf shared a glance with Thorin. “We will never catch up to a warg in full stride, Bilbo. I share your grief for this child, believe me I do...” he said, a slump in his shoulders. “But I’m afraid Thorin is right. There is nothing left to be done, apart from what you did yourself — and you should count yourself very lucky to have survived this encounter yourself, my dear fellow.”

Crowley slowed Rover to a halt. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing no one following him. He sighed in relief. It was odd, extremely odd, seeing a hobbit so far from The Shire, especially one so fiery. He wasn’t eager to meet his dwarf-friends, either, nor to see how they may treat a baby. He’d made a snap judgement to take it for himself. Aziraphale had met the elven couple who had perished in that house, and he was sure that they would rather their baby find refuge with someone they knew, not with strangers from the road. He got down from Rover’s back, walking down the garden path to the cottage door. He took a deep breath before stepping inside. 

The hearth still glowed with the embers of the fire, warming the living room. Aziraphale sat in his favourite chair, a lamp by his elbow, engrossed in a book. “Hey, alba...” he said, stood nervously in the doorway. “Still up?”

“Yes, this is a tremendously good book. What’s that you’ve brought in, dear?” he said, glancing up only briefly, noting the cloth bundle in his arms. “A present?”

The baby gurgled. Aziraphale’s head snapped around, his eyes wide. “Um...” Crowley said, cringing. 

Aziraphale threw aside his blanket, hurrying over to look at the baby elf Crowley was carrying. “What in the name of — ?” he said, stunned. “How...?”

“Well... D’you remember that couple from Lórien, living a few miles up the slope, right next to the mountains?” he said, and Aziraphale nodded. “I was coming home, and... I heard something. A rock had fallen down, killed them both. Only the baby survived.”

Aziraphale gasped, pressing his hand over his mouth. “How awful,” he said. He’d met them only once, when the she-elf was still pregnant. They were happy to see another elf joining them on the slopes. He’d neglected to mention his orcish lover at the time. “Just wait there, I’ll fetch some warm water. The poor dear reeks of smoke.”

He bustled away, and Crowley stared after him. “Er — But — what are we going to do with it...?”

“Crowley, we live in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. There isn’t an orphanage for miles around, especially not one that would know how to raise an elfling!” he said, pausing by the door. 

“But do _we_ know how to raise an elfling?” he said, daunted. Aziraphale was about to respond when the baby gurgled again, drawing Crowley’s attention. He shushed her gently, murmuring soft comforts without a second thought. Aziraphale’s heart fluttered. 

“A question all new parents ask themselves, I imagine,” he said, mostly to himself. He couldn’t help himself from returning to his side, looking at the bright eyes of the elfling. “She likes you.” 

“Only cause she doesn’t understand what I am,” he said with a hint of bitterness. Aziraphale leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“Ah, but I understand well enough, don’t I?” he said, caressing his jaw. Crowley gave a grunt of assent. “You are really quite a nice orc, you know, Crowley.”

He curled his lip. “M’not nice.”

“Pish posh.” 

“None of that was words,” he said, shaking his head in contempt. Aziraphale laughed softly, leaning on his shoulder to look down at the baby, whose wide eyes didn’t yet understand much of the world. Crowley made the mistake of watching his lover’s face, at the soft and unguarded affection he already had for this baby... “So. We’re dads now, are we?”

“I don’t see anyone else stepping up to the plate, do you?” he said, looking up at him with a silent thank-you in his eyes. “Besides... the orphaned child of two exiles will hardly be welcome if we try to return it to Lórien, would it?”

“Fair point. Now go fetch that water, the tyke needs a bath — and a name,” he said, settling on the armchair while he went to find the water. He rocked the baby gently, watching its face with new curiosity. He reached down to stroke her cheek with the smooth back of his claw, and she gurgled in contentment. “My daughter...”

Bilbo limped on, sullen and bruised, through the next day’s hike. He thought about the baby from the farm, wondering what had become of it. Bofur walked beside him a while, trying to cheer him up, to no avail. Ori had a go, too. Neither dwarf quite hit the mark. The whole company felt subdued, even Gandalf, knowing that a young life had ended so close to their camp. That, and despite Thorin’s unwillingness to announce it, they were thoroughly lost. After their narrow escape from Azog, they’d lost their bearings, plus a few supplies which had been pillaged by the goblins. Another afternoon was now beginning to wind down, with dark clouds gathering, and they had no idea if they were even moving in the right direction. 

“What’s that up ahead?” asked Fili, shielding his eyes from the sun. Just off the rough-hewn trail, there was a stone cottage with a neat, enclosed allotment of flowers and vegetables out the front. 

“Why, I believe we may be in luck,” said Gandalf, hurrying to the front. “We can ask for directions, and perhaps a roof for the night, if we’re lucky.”

Thorin huffed, but a knowing glance from Balin kept him quiet. They needed the help, no matter what his pride said. The bulk of the company waited outside the garden gate, while Gandalf and Thorin went to knock on the door. 

“Just a moment!” called a prim voice from the other side. There was a rustle, a click of the lock, and the door swung open. Both of them were surprised to lay eyes on an elf. “Can I help you?”

“Nevermind,” Thorin said, turning to leave, soured by the sight of pointed ears. Gandalf stopped him halfway.

“Hello there. My name is Gandalf. My friends and I are on a journey eastwards, only we appear to have gotten rather lost,” he said with a polite smile and a gesture to the others. The gaggle of dwarves smiled and waved, which the elf hesitantly returned. “We were wondering if you might be able to help us.”

“Where is it you need to go?” he said. 

“The Great Greenwood,” he replied. The elf blanched.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have nothing more to do with that place, even in passing. Good afternoon,” he said, and went to close the door. Thorin slammed his hand against it, stopping him. 

“We are no friends of King Thranduil,” he said stiffly. “If you have quarrel with him, we pass no judgement.”

He paused, opening the door a little. “Hm... well, if you put it that way...” he said, glancing down the garden path. “You can come in, but only to see the map and warm yourselves. I must insist that you’re gone before my partner gets home.”

Gandalf and Thorin shared a quizzical glance, but shrugged. “Very well.”

Dwarves piled into the house, one after the other, and soon crowded the living room. Bilbo looked around and, for a moment, he was transported back home. Books covered one wall completely, and a large red rug covered most of the floor. It was plush underfoot, much like the two armchairs by the fire. There were a few indoor plants in the corner, brining colour to the cosy-yet-spacious room. The elf introduced himself as Aziraphale, welcomed them, and went to fetch his map. 

“He seems pleasant enough,” said Bofur cheerfully, who was just happy to crouch by a warm fire. 

Thorin paced behind him. “He’s hiding something,” he said. “He seems very eager for us to move on.”

“Travellers often bring trouble, especially in large numbers,” replied Gandalf, though privately he wondered why a woodland elf would be so averse to the mention of their homeland. “Mister Aziraphale has every right to be cautious.”

The elf returned with a large map, and laid it out on the low table between the armchairs. “At the moment, we are here. You’ll want to travel north again until you find the road, and follow it east,” he said. He was about to continue when a plaintive cry stole his attention. “Oh, excuse me.”

He disappeared through a different door, emerging this time with a fussy baby in his arms. The sight plucked Bilbo’s heartstrings, reminding him sharply of the child he couldn’t save. It was swaddled in soft tartan fabric, gurgling and reaching up toward its father. “Pardon the noise, she’s still settling in. She just needs a little reassurance,” he said, rocking her gently. “She was very recently orphaned, you see. She doesn’t like being left alone for very long.”

“Ach, poor thing,” said Gloin, thinking of his own young son. “Her name?”

“Seron,” he said with a smile. She was settling down again already. 

“You’ll want to keep a close eye on your girl there for the foreseeable future, y’know,” Bofur said, gently cautioning him. “There’s a child-snatching orc around these parts. Our friend Bilbo here saw it with his own eyes.”

“Good lord, is there really?” Aziraphale said, eyes widening. Bilbo nodded soberly. “I’ll be sure to tell my partner to keep a lookout. He’s a gentle soul, and privately I suspect he’s wanted to be a father for some time, but he can drive off any ne’er-do-wells that might be hanging about.”

Bilbo smiled, warmed by this little family’s love. “He sounds very kind.”

“He is,” he said, sitting down in his chair. 

“And yet, you don’t want us to meet him,” Thorin said flatly. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. 

“He just doesn’t like strangers in the house,” he said defensively, gathering Seron closer. Coming forward and admitting that his partner was a Gundabad orc would probably not go down well with a pack of dwarves. “Anyway, I’ve allowed you to look at the map and warm up. Shouldn’t you be going now?”

“Gladly,” Thorin said, not eager to sit in an elf’s home any longer than he had to. He strode to the door, trailing grumbling dwarves who were not looking forward to braving the cold again. Then, Aziraphale heard something just outside the door. He took a sharp breath. He’d know the sound of Rover’s stride anywhere. 

“Wait! Not that way,” he cried desperately. They turned to look quizzically at him. “Um — it’s — it’s bad luck around here, to leave through the front door. You must use the back.”

Rolling his eyes, Thorin waved a hand, and the company turned heel. Aziraphale ushered them through, glancing nervously toward the window. He saw a flash of grey fur. He opened the back door for them, and around seven of them had made it out before a voice rang through the house. 

“Aziraphale, I’m home,” Crowley called from the front door. He turned with a short whine. “Aziraphale? Where’ve you got to, mas alba?”

Gandalf froze, looking at the ashen-faced elf with a new tinge of horror. “Black Speech,” he murmured. Aziraphale winced. 

“Perhaps... you misheard?” he said, edging further inside. A grey face appeared over his shoulder, as if just to prove him wrong. Bilbo’s strangled cry drew the others’ attention.

“That’s him! The orc from the farm!” he cried, and his eyes suddenly dropped back to the bundle in Aziraphale’s arms. His jaw dropped. Weapons clattered all around him as the dwarves dragged him into a defensive circle, pointing their blades at Crowley. The orc curled his lip, snarling and grasping Aziraphale’s arm protectively. Seron began to cry. 

“Crowley — take the baby,” Aziraphale said, pushing her into his arms before he had the chance to protest. Kili immediately lowered his bow, not trusting his aim enough to risk taking the shot now. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief; he’d hoped that would happen. He held out his hands, imposing himself between the dwarves and his partner. “I can explain.”

“We don’t want to hear your excuses, elf!” Thorin barked. “We ought to have guessed you were in league with the orc.”

“He means you no harm. His name is Crowley, he’s my lover,” he said, but that didn’t help either. Thorin’s glare hardened. Several of the dwarves gagged in shock and revulsion. 

Gandalf lowered his sword slightly. “An elf and an orc? Could it be...?” he wondered aloud, looking closely at Aziraphale. “The lost Captain of the Greenwood Guard?”

Crowley arched a brow, rubbing Seron’s back, trying to soothe her cries while still glowering at the strangers. “Lost?”

Gandalf raised a hand, and the dwarves reluctantly stayed their weapons. “There is an old legend, if you would permit me to tell it...” he said. The couple shared a glance, and Aziraphale gave a tentative nod. The dwarves, curious, also turned to listen, though they kept a careful eye on Crowley.

“The story goes, according to the Greenwood elves, that an orc escaped from their dungeons many years ago,” he said. “Before he slipped from the palace, as revenge against the Elven King, he kidnapped his most loyal and respected guard-captain, to serve him as his mate.” 

The dwarves pulled a variety of unpleasant faces, revolted by the idea but nonetheless willing to believe it. Crowley and Aziraphale both spluttered indignantly and began to protest. “However,” Gandalf continued, raising his brows and silencing them both. “There is a rumour, spread by word of mouth, that the guardsman wasn’t so loyal. They say he had turned against his people, and released the prisoner so that he might willingly pledge himself to that very same vagrant Gundabad orc.”

“Hm. Well, I suppose I can’t exactly argue with that assessment,” Aziraphale said, pursing his lips in irritation. Gandalf’s eyebrows climbed higher. 

“So the rumour is true. I’d written it off as an old traveller’s tale,” he said in amazement. “It seems King Thranduil is eager to keep this story quiet. The legend may be your own, but your names do not belong to it.”

”Hardly surprising. Betraying him was bad enough, but I admit I was rather taking the mick when I smuggled Crowley out the front door,” he said, drawing an small chuckle from the assembled dwarves. Thorin silenced them with a sharp look.

”I feel that I must mention... you have been presumed dead, Captain,” Gandalf said with a note of consternation. “Whichever story they came to believe, your people did not expect you would survive for long as an orc’s bride.”

“Course they didn’t,” Crowley said bitterly, and Aziraphale placed a reassuring hand on his arm. Crowley cradled his baby protectively to his chest. The dwarves watched him closely, especially as Seron reached up to grasp one of his long, clawed fingers. “Bloody elf nobility... Vicious buggers, the lot of them.”

“Bold words from an orc,” Thorin said in disdain. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes, and nodded toward Bilbo, half-hidden amongst the dwarves. “How many orcs would have spared your hobbit there, if they’d found him trapped and helpless beneath that rafter?” he said, raising his head. A few of the dwarves considered his words, and lowered their weapons further. “I would have even saved him, if I hadn’t heard you coming.”

“On my honour, there is no orc more trustworthy than my dear Crowley,” Aziraphale chipped in. “Please... if you would only have faith in our good will, we would offer you a roof over your heads for the night. The day is not young, and this is the safest home between Rivendell and Beorn’s house.”

Thorin set his jaw, and turned to speak with his company. “What say you?” he murmured.

“An orc is an orc. He’d cut our throats in the night given half a chance,” said Dwalin. “His pet elves are only alive for his own amusement, no doubt.”

“But he saved that wee baby from the ruin, and elves are no more fond of orcs than we are. They look happy enough,” said Bofur, glancing back to Aziraphale, who didn’t seem frightened of Crowley in the slightest. “He’s no bogstandard thug, you can’t deny.”

“He’s a bit weedy,” said Dori. “If it came to it, we could overpower him.”

“You can’t be serious,” Bilbo said, almost tempted to smile in disbelief. “Safest house around my foot. The only reason it’s safe here is that bloody great warg he has, and that will answer only to its master.”

Thorin held up his hand to stop the bickering. “We are under threat from Azog, from goblins, and time is against us. Much as I hate to admit it... these two may be the lesser of the evils we face,” he said, with a suspicious sidelong look at them. Aziraphale waved nervously. “We will accept their offer, but keep watch in the night as usual. We leave at dawn. Until then, keep your guard up, all of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologise for the spooning & f-orc-ing joke


	5. The Gentle Orc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for references to past assault in this chapter

Bofur, Bilbo, Fili and Kili clustered by the living room window, peering out onto the front lawn. After Seron fell asleep in her cot, Aziraphale followed his partner outside to tend to a few things. He didn’t say what. The sky had begun to turn orange with the sunset, and Aziraphale hadn’t yet done anything but talk to Crowley. 

“What’re they saying?” asked Kili impatiently.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo replied. He squinted. “He’s going to fetch one of those pheasants from the line...”

Aziraphale took a bird down from the wire where they’d been hanging, and the warg immediately sat to attention. Crowley laughed, taking a pause from digging to watch his tail wagging furiously. He whined in excitement as Aziraphale approached. He tossed the pheasant over to him, and Rover snapped it from the air, swallowing in one gulp. Fili cringed. 

“Nasty beasts, aren’t they?” 

“It’s his master that worries me,” said Bilbo as Crowley came over to his lover, and leaned down to kiss him. He pulled back and lingered for a moment, until Aziraphale closed the gap again. Crowley leaned down a little further, and their unknown audience watched in abject horror as Aziraphale tilted his head, exposing his neck to let the orc press an open-mouthed kiss against it. Bofur flinched, catching a flash of pointed teeth against his vulnerable throat. Finally remembering themselves, they snapped out of their shock, and looked away. 

“That elf is either very brave, or very stupid,” Bofur said, rubbing his own neck nervously. Feeling orc-teeth against it was the stuff of nightmares. What was Aziraphale _thinking?_

The four of them scattered away from the window by the time their hosts came back inside. Aziraphale’s neck, far from the bloody mess they might’ve expected, bore only one small reddened mark, which faded before he’d even laid out some food. It was simple fare, chopped vegetables and boiled meat, but it was all he could do on short notice. That, and Aziraphale was quite protective over his pantry. Good food was for friends, not a pack of dwarves who he didn’t entirely trust not to attack Crowley. As they ate in relative quiet, Bilbo couldn’t help but ask. 

“Um... how did you two meet?” he said, looking between the elf and the orc. “I know you said you were a guardsman, but... just seems odd, that’s all.”

“I kidnapped him,” Crowley said bluntly before Aziraphale could put it more politely. Several dwarves nodded, unsurprised. Aziraphale batted him on the arm. 

“You forgot to mention that I was hunting you at the time. You had good reason,” he said. He turned back to Bilbo. “He’s a bit of a drama queen, ignore him. He took me prisoner, yes, but he was a perfect gentleman about it.”

“Your little apprentice didn’t think so. She hated me,” Crowley said. “She probably thinks I’ve eaten you by now.”

“More fool her, then,” Aziraphale replied. Seron wailed from the other room, and he sighed. “Ah. Looks like she’s awake again.”

“I’ll get her, alba, it’s fine,” he said, leaving the room with a light touch on his shoulder. 

Bilbo watched him go. “Seron... she’s the baby he took from the farm, isn’t she?” he guessed. Aziraphale nodded, and said nothing. The look in his eye dared Bilbo to challenge his right to keep her. He almost did, until Crowley returned with the baby in his arms; he figured it was a bad idea to come between a Gundabad orc, tame or not, and his young. 

Seron didn’t want to settle. She cried and wriggled and, no matter what her odd pair of fathers tried, nothing seemed to work. As far as they could see, she was clean and well-fed and not even running a temperature. “Is there nothing you can do to stop this racket?” Thorin said irritably. 

“I’m sorry, do you speak baby?” Crowley said with a frustrated growl. Seron fell suddenly quiet, but it lasted only for a moment. He looked down in surprise. 

“Well, orc, whatever you just did, do it again!” said Dwalin. “It stopped for a moment.”

“Try growling again,” suggested Aziraphale. Sceptical, but without any better ideas, Crowley began to let out a low, rumbling snarl. It made the dwarves’ lips curl in distaste and blood-soaked memories, but Seron reached up with a happy gurgle. “That’s it! She must like the sound. Perhaps it’s comforting.”

“A fell childhood that would be, if the baby finds orc-snarls comforting,” Thorin said dryly, turning his nose up at the idea. 

“Not if her father is an orc,” said Gandalf slowly. Crowley paid them no mind, and settled into his chair with Seron on his chest as it reverberated with a constant, guttural purr. Aziraphale watched with a fascinated adoration. They were not disturbed again. Crowley’s growls were a firm reminder that this was orcish territory, even despite his elvish mate and daughter.

The evening wore on, and soon the company was bedding down for the night. Their hosts retired to their bedroom around the same time, with Seron in tow, and Dwalin kept watch in the night. The cottage was inky black as the moonlight strained to pierce the shutters, and the light flickered now and then as a restless warg paced the garden. Dwalin gripped his axe as those heavy paw-steps approached the door, and a curious snuffling bled through from the outside. Rover grumbled, and walked away again. Dwalin relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief. Bilbo was right; the beast made for a deadly guard-dog. The warg wasn’t the only unnerving thing to go bump in the night in this home, though. Every now and then, if Seron began to stir, the floor would creak with unseen footfalls, and that chilling orcish purr would flood the house again. 

Bilbo was almost surprised to wake up the next morning in one piece. He was the first up besides Gloin, who’d taken over the night watch from Dwalin. The red-haired dwarf was half-dozing as they sun rose, and gave a short nod to Bilbo. He returned it, and made for the front door. He needed some air. He was fond of the dwarves, but thirteen of them in an enclosed space all night tended to make the air a little ripe. 

He took his first step onto the lawn, and froze. Crowley leaned against the fence, with his warg at his feet, watching the rustling branches of the forest. He turned his head. “Morning,” he said. 

Bilbo hesitated. “Good morning,” he said. “I’ll just, um... go...”

“No, c’mere,” he said, beckoning him over. “I won’t bite.”

He gave a forced smile, edging closer. “And your warg?”

“Not unless I tell him to,” he said with a mischievous smirk. Bilbo kept his distance, and stayed on the inside of the fence, leaning on it lightly. “I’ve got to ask. What’s a hobbit doing so far from The Shire?”

“I’m surprised you even know what I am. We don’t see many orcs back home, funnily enough,” he said carefully. “I’m employed with the company, if you must know.”

He smirked a little. “Alright, don’t tell me then,” he said. He looked down at him. “But I’ll say this much: if you’re heading to the Greenwood, avoid the palace like the plague. Thranduil doesn’t value any life that isn’t elvish.”

“Personal experience?” he said. 

“Yeah. Ask Aziraphale if you don’t believe me,” he said. “He wouldn’t have rescued me if he believed his king was just.”

“But he believes that you are, does he?” he said. Crowley surprised him with a low chuckle. 

“I used to get in trouble with the other orcs for asking this many questions, you know,” he said, his arms crossed. “I don’t know what Aziraphale thinks about me. I never asked, ironically. I just know he loves me.”

“How did you end up like this, then?” Bilbo dared to ask. Crowley arched a brow. “You know, not... um...” 

”Not very orc-y?” he guessed with an arched brow. 

”Well, I wasn’t going to say it, but...”

He gave a humourless chuckle. “Funny story. I came from the north, in Gundabad, and you don’t need me to tell you that there’s some nasty pieces of work up there,” he said, wrinkling his nose. Bilbo nodded sagely. It was an understatement, having faced Azog himself. “I was scrawny, though. Weak. Bolg, he’s Azog’s uh... Azog’s doing, he used to use me for target practice.” 

“What, he threw rocks?” Bilbo said in surprise. 

“Arrows,” he said, hugging himself slightly. Bilbo paled, and Crowley gave him a friendly nudge to lighten the mood. “Ah, it’s fine. He couldn’t hit an olog-hai if it were three feet in front of him. He gave up on archery pretty sharpish I think.”

“Well that’s something, at least,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “So... what, you just had enough one day?”

“More or less. You only hang around for so long getting shot at before you decide enough’s enough,” he said with a shrug, the scars on his back tingling at the memory. Bolg was a bad shot with a bow, yes, but he could throw knives far better. Rover whined, sensing his well-hidden distress, leaning up to lick his hand. He smiled. “I managed to snag this one from a litter of pups, and raised him in my cave, ready to make a run for it. He was a bit sickly, so no one looked for him when he went missing. You grew up big and strong with a little encouragement though, didn’t you, mate?”

Rover gave a short bark of agreement, wagging his tail. Even Bilbo smiled, looking up at Crowley for a moment as he patted the warg’s head. He almost didn’t look like an orc under the warm light of the sunrise, with a peaceful smile at his lips and a happy home at his back. “You’ll take good care of Seron, won’t you?” he said, as more of a realisation than a question. 

“Yeah,” he said, with an affectionate glance over his shoulder, at everything he’d never dared dream of having in those dark, lonely days after he was driven out of Gundabad. “I will.”

The company was ready to leave just after dawn. Thorin was itching to get back on the road and leave this unnatural household behind him, as were most of the dwarves. They were still muttering — _it’s unnatural, that is... elves and orcs? They’ve got screws loose, both of them._ Gandalf lingered by the gate, sharing a last few words with Aziraphale. 

“It has been most interesting, meeting the two of you,” he said earnestly. “Until yesterday evening, I had doubted such a union would ever be possible.”

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly, cradling Seron. “Our pleasure,” he said. Crowley wrapped an arm around his shoulders and said nothing, keeping his face carefully impassive. “Though you would forgive us if we asked you to keep this meeting strictly between us. Not everyone in Middle Earth will be so understanding.”

Gandalf glanced furtively back toward Thorin, who was sharing quiet words with Balin. “Agreed,” he said. He tipped the brim of his hat respectfully. “My best wishes for both of you and your family. If only love crossed such boundaries more often, perhaps the world would be less divided.”

“Maybe it does,” Crowley said, resting his head against Aziraphale’s. “If you just know where to look.”

Gandalf opened his mouth to respond when a voice called over from the trail. “Gandalf! Will you be ready soon? You’ll make us late.”

The wizard huffed. “That’s Kili. That young dwarf has much to learn of the world,” he said, bidding the couple a hasty goodbye and storming back toward the dwarves. “I shall have you know, Master Kili, that a wizard is never late!”

Aziraphale laughed softly, relaxing back against Crowley’s chest as the company set out toward the distant shadow of the Greenwood. It had been an interesting encounter, to be sure, and both the orc and the elf wondered what would become of the questing dwarves as they headed east. Not that it had much to do with them, of course. They had a baby to raise, and a whole life unfurling at their feet, just waiting to be lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been fun! I do have a couple ideas to maybe continue this, just a few snapshots really, perhaps of Tauriel finding them, or of the role this little family could play in the events of The Lord Of The Rings. I may write them if I get time. Until then thanks so much for the response on this little adventure, it’s been great :)

**Author's Note:**

> Try not to judge this story too harshly, it’s not my finest work... I wrote the whole thing in the space of about 2 days while I had no WiFi whatsoever, watched the first two films in The Hobbit trilogy and went a bit mad, and here we are :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Remains of a Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085131) by [WorseOmens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens)




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